


The Lovers

by TK_DuVeraun



Series: The Tower (Inverted) AKA The Elves Win [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood mages gonna blood mage, F/M, Fantasy Racism, Power Dynamics, References to Torture, The elves win, hahaha these are romances, meet cute, references to consent issues, references to fantasy slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TK_DuVeraun/pseuds/TK_DuVeraun
Summary: Romantic(ish) asides from The Tower (Inverted). Chapters take place before, during and after the main story. Please check out the series to read the main story!





	1. Every Day Occurrences

The South was, in a word, shit. Bland, tasteless food served by the worst-trained servants Vasili had ever had the misfortune to encounter. The beaches were little more than rocky scars next to the water and the weather was absolute pants.

**For one that burns as easily as you, you certainly have affection for the sun.**

“Why don’t you keep your opinion in your hoard?” Vasili questioned aloud. Did it make the groundling Free Marchers stare? Yes. Did he care what they thought? No.

**Some things are worth more shared.**

“That was a rhetorical question. You should know. You ask them all of the time.” He kicked out his left foot, trying to dislodge a dirt clot that clung to his boot. “My misery is your fault, so you’re not allowed to complain about me complaining.”

**Last I cared for the mortal world, there was a king in Starkhaven, not this soft princeling even you could bend over.**

“He has quite a mouth on him, at least, even if there’s no leverage in his politics or his pants.” After a pause for effect, Vasili laughed at his own joke. He mounted his horse and set it walking East. Had it been worth it to seduce the Prince of Starkhaven? Not particularly, especially not after he’d been bodily thrown out of the city, still drunk the next morning, but it had annoyed George and so few things did.

The closest port that hadn’t been closed to him was Hercinia, which had a name as ugly as it was - probably. All of the Free Marches was drab and uninspired. Not that anything could hope to live up to Minrathous, but at least they tried in Orlais. His horse was Orlesian, a beautiful silver mare with more class in her braided tail than all of the city-states combined. He nearly ran over an elf while twisting a pink ribbon into her mane. He wrinkled his nose.

The elf was female, though flat-chested. Instead of something sensible, she wore thin armor that only covered her torso. Even without George’s help he could have her bleeding out on the road before she could say, “I’m sorry, my lord.” And that white hair. Who did she think she was impressing?

**Those marks are not** ** _vallaslin,_** **perhaps she is another of Danarius’ pets?**

“Make way for your betters, knife-ear!”

Instead of cowering, the elf drew her dagger and waved it at knee-level, shouting elvish gibberish.

**I will translate for free this time.**

“I don’t care what she said.”

**She said,** George continued,  **‘What does that even mean? A knife that shape would be useless. And since when do you insult someone about features you share? That’s like telling your brother his mother is whore. Yes, it might be true, but you’re also a whoreson.’**

Vasili hopped off his horse in a cacophony of metal clangs. He looked down his nose at her, but it wasn’t nearly as far down as he’d expected. Elves were never as tall as him. What an uppity slattern. He jabbed her in the chest with one, armored finger. “First of all, no one speaks your elvish claptrap. Second, I share nothing with you. Even my hair has more life than this empty- Ouch! Hey!”

The woman pinched the top of his ear and dragged his head down with it. Her Trade was stilted and accented, but more understandable than any number of Orlesian nobles. Not that it would stop Vasili from removing her head.  “I am from an island, not blind or stupid. Your ears are sharp as mine.”

The red marks on his face flared to life as he fought her off. He tried to throw her to the ground, but she flipped and twisted his arm. They scuffled until Vasili gave it up and backed away. He swatted the front of his armor as if she had dirtied it. “Bite your tongue. I’m no more a knife-ear than-”

**Ah, but you are elf-blooded.**

Vasili dropped his hand and turned to scowl at his mare, as if she was the one who had spoken. “I’m not interested in your jokes.”

**That’s fine. You are the biggest joke there is, after all.**

Steam rose from Vasili’s armor as his marks heated to searing. He was almost insulted that George allowed him to use his power to fume at him. Demons. “I am not-”

**I imagine my new person can see through your father’s illusion.**

“We’re not keeping her. And any babe can see through Father’s illusions. Why else would he be a washed up-”

**I do love it when you insult yourself, but remove your signet ring, see for yourself and let me talk to my new acquisition.**

Muttering to himself in Anders, Vasili threw his gauntlets on the ground at the elf’s feet. He didn’t stop to wonder why she’d stayed to listen to his argument with George. He stared into her white eyes while pulling off the signet ring. “Happy now?”

“Are you giving that to me?” She reached for it, only for Vasili to jerk his hands away. 

With a scoff and a roll of his eyes, he pulled out his hand mirror and examined his ears. His pointed ears. They were not, in fact, as sharp as the woman’s, but they were undeniably elven. And deny he tried. Explanations and spells slithered across his tongue until the woman screeched like a Despair Demon, snatched the mirror from his hands and threw it to the ground. “What is wrong with you?”

She stomped the shards into the dirt, which was a terrible idea considering she didn’t have shoes on. Not that he would save her the injury. “Demons come out of those!”

Marks burning hot against his skin, Vasili grabbed the hilt of his greatsword. “A demon’s about to come out of-”

George wrenched control of his body with a crack of bones and the ache of strained ligaments. The woman watched his contortions with interest. Bitch.

She leaned in and brushed a lock of Vasili’s hair away from his eyes. “So you are a spirit warrior. No wonder you posture like a school boy. Hubris.”

“ **You are a curious creature. Mine now, of course, though I expect I’ll have to fight you for it.** ”

She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head to the side. “What do I get out of this?”

George had no opportunity to answer. A wave of magic crashed into Vasili, throwing him to the ground and leaving him twitching as it surged through his blood magic marks. He gasped for air and struggled to push himself up on his elbows.

“What-” A boom interrupted the woman. She looked behind him and her eyes went wide. She knelt next to him and heaved his weight onto her shoulders - which took her no effort, but Vasili would pretend he didn’t notice - before turning him around. “So… Does this happen often here on the mainland?”

“...No, the sky doesn’t just tear open and let the Fade in regularly, no.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ghilenan Vaharel hated Orlais. In her opinion, anyone with any sense should hate Orlais. They didn’t, of course, because they thought the Exalted Plains were named that for fun and not because the Orlesian Chantry tried to commit genocide against the Dalish. But who was she to to teach them? It wasn’t as if she was the First of her Clan and her very life revolved around educating people on the history of The People- Oh wait, except it was. Ilena’s feet sunk into mud made from blood and ash, but she ignored the grotesque squish-squash noises.

Orlesians. The word was one of the foulest curses she knew. They pretended to be so much more civilized than Tevinter to the North. There was nothing civil about slavery with a different name. Nothing civil about how they slaughtered each other in a civil war over which tyrant had a prettier dress. Nothing civil about how they just tossed all bodies into a single, fetid trench. Soldiers from both sides rotted with slaves dragged to the battlefield without chains. Ilena left the  _ shems _ to their resting place and spat on their corpses for the insult. Her interest was only in the elves, in The People. 

Day after day, she searched the trenches for her family and carried them out for a proper burial under a tree. Half the wasteland the  _ shems _ had turned Orlais into would be gone by the time she was done. She shouldn’t have had enough magic to grow so many saplings from seeds, but she suspected a spirit had found her cause worthy.

Or Rage found her entertaining. She didn’t particularly care which.

A message arrived for her on magic wings. Arlo had been caught during his assassination. She was to meet with the Inquisition and convince them the clan had meant no insult and ideally bring Arlo’s body back for proper burial. Tears burned in her eyes, but it was from the acrid smoke from the trench. She had no affection for her Clan Brother, despite him calling her cousin at every opportunity. None, none at all. He was a nuisance. She wasn’t sad he was gone. Wasn’t sad he’d never again, very badly, tie ribbons in her hair or hug her too tightly or smile every time they saw each other.

So she had to leave, head up to the mountains and find the Inquisition, which was supposedly lead by one of The People and get her not-cousin’s body back and play nice. So she had to heave one last body onto her shoulders. So she had to carry him to her army of trees and let their shared blood bring life from his death.

Until he coughed. He coughed, spilling blood and bile down her back. He coughed, so very much alive. Ilena sprinted to her camp, using magic to stabilize the man in her grip. She laid him next to her banked fire. Not very much alive. Both eyes would have been swollen shut from his beating if he wasn’t dehydrated to his bones. He shouldn’t have survived his time in the trench, but the Creators blessed him and she wouldn’t let that blessing go to waste. One painstaking sip at a time, she drained her waterskin into him. By the time the sun set, he was more her magic than his own life energy, but he was breathing audibly. 

Rather loudly, considering his injuries, but he was better than he had been. He’d suffered torture. Most of his fingers were broken, both cheekbones were fractured, his back was more lashes than anything else, his earrings had been torn from his flesh and probably a myriad of other injuries the Creators’ blessing and her own magic had cured before she could document them. And given his body hair and the relative roundness of his ears, he had a human parent. Maybe that was why he’d gotten such cruel treatment? Because he’d tried to rise above his ‘station?’ Speculation was useless. 

Ilena tended him through the night and slept the morning curled against Bana’s side. When she woke, her new friend was sweating and thrashing in his sleep. The fever wasn’t good, but him having the strength to moan piteously was. She washed his face and set a magically-cool cloth on his forehead. He was unfairly pretty, with long eyelashes only just dark enough not to blend in with his skin. Despite the damage to his face, his nose was untouched and looked… regal, for lack of a better word. Shave off the facial hair, dress him in Dalish armor and he’d look like he came right out of one of the legends of Arlathan.

When his fever broke, Ilena left him with enough food and water to last a day and then rode to the nearest village. She’d intended to trade for what she needed, offer some healing where applicable, but it was infested by Orlesian soldiers - and Chevaliers, at that. She cut the heels out of the boots she didn’t steal and tore out the crotches of the stockings. Her wounded friend was so much larger than her it was difficult to judge what would fit him, so she stole a few of everything he would need. Bana could look after him while she spoke to the Inquisitor and then she’d take him home to Clan Vaharel to properly recover.

That he might want to go home never crossed her mind.

She rode into her camp with the morning. She kissed Bana between the ears and hopped off. She heard him rouse as she unloaded Bana. She looked over her shoulder into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. They were as bright and clear as the Nocen Sea and her “good morning” sat forgotten on her tongue.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, regretted it when he noticed the broken cheekbones and then tried to sit up. He made it up to his elbows, at which point his soft, pink mouth twisted into a sneer more disgusting than she could ever imagine. “What are you staring at, Knife-ear? Bring me my food already.”

Change of plans. She was going to tie a rope around his ankle and drag him to the Inquisition and they could deal with him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with all of the warnings for fantasy slavery! It takes place during the height of the Elvhen Empire and contains mentions of some of the terrible things that happened there. If you're sensitive to such content, please feel free to skip!

Andruil’s Cradle was the manicured forest surrounding her primary estate. Like so many of Andruil’s slaves, Juniper was born under the heavy boughs and branded with her  _ vallaslin _ before he could walk. He was alive for Ghilen’nain’s ascendance, but in practical terms, all it meant was that many of his friends had their brands changed before disappearing. They couldn’t write and he couldn’t read, so there was no rational reason to think they were dead.

Except the rumors of Ghilen’nain’s alchemized horrors.

He did his best not to think of those as he stood guard, his armor blending into the oak bark. Not a single muscle was allowed to move or twitch in Andruil’s Cradle. The Evanuris hunted whatever caught her eye, her property or not. No few guards had shifted to cough only to find themselves impaled by a magic arrow. Her Divinity was away from the Cradle, out at War, but away was a meaningless term when she had her Hall of Eluvians. He’d seen the magic mirrors, cleaned them when he was too young to stand guard, but never travelled through one. Never felt the magic himself.

Light shifted between the trees and Juniper’s arrow was in the air before he’d even fully turned to the movement. A guard would be killed for moving, yes, but so, too, would they be killed for allowing anything else to move in the trees. By the time he made sense of the shape, his second arrow was nocked. As he released it, the piebald fox with his arrow under its leg transformed into one of Andruil’s generals. Tall and head held high, she lifted her left arm and removed the arrow with a sharp tug. Green magic flashed and the wound was gone, though blood stained her armor.  Her hair was dark brown, but shined red in the afternoon light. Her features were bold, but carried none of Andruil’s sharpness.

Juniper fell to his knees and pressed his forehead into the loam. “I beg your forgiveness, Lord General. Though I acted as Her Divinity bade, I should have-” He froze, words disintegrating in his mouth when she touched his shoulder.

“Please, it’s fine.” Her eyes were a warm green, like the first shoots on a new sapling. “Please don’t kneel to me. I- I’m no one’s master.”

He shouldn’t have met her eyes. Shouldn’t have looked up at all, but he had and he was damned because for the first time in his life he wanted to follow an order. Knees shaking as if he were a new faun, Juniper rose to his feet. ‘I’m no one’s master’ rang and clanged between his eyes as he fought the habit of looking down. “Are you hurt, General?”

She pressed the arrow into his hands. “No and my name is Aquila Meshurok. What’s your- Do you have a name?”

He did. He even had parents, though that wasn’t what she’d asked. Saying his name was harder than standing had been. Looking into a face that wasn’t framed with blood marks was so unknown, so forbidden that his name caught like sludge in his throat. “June- Not, I mean, no, it’s actually- I didn’t mean to imply-” He took a deep breath. “Juniper. My name is… Juniper.”

“Juniper’s a lovely name.” She stroked the tree behind him like it was an old friend. “This is your post, yes?”

Afraid of stumbling over his words again, he nodded.

Magic flashed as she drew her sword and sunk its blade deep into the tree. The leaves curled in on themselves and the bark flaked off, revealing a different texture beneath. The branches twisted and contorted into new shapes and sprouted leaves of- Juniper. His post was now a juniper tree. Tears in his eyes, he stroked the bark as she had. “Your magic is beautiful.”

Her laugh was like that of bronze bells warmed by sunshine. “Thank you, but playing with nature is my mother’s gift, really.” She thrust her sword into the ground and it froze under their feet, ice shooting out in all directions. Walls grew up from the base, like when his mother would make spun-sugar castles for Her Divinity. A gazebo with a wall of ice between his post and Andruil’s estate solidified around them. The ceiling and supports were embossed with a pattern of twisting vines, as if carved by a hundred steady hands. 

Aquila stood in the center and basked in the steam rising from the ice. Arms stretched out, she spun in a circle like a child. “This, this is my gift.”

Andruil destroyed things. Ghilen’nain twisted and corrupted them from their true purpose. Aquila, the long-haired, fox general,  _ made _ things.

His hands opened and clenched in front of his chest as he tried to scrape words from the inside of his mind to give her, to tell how just how awed he was, just how moved.

Moving slowly, as if he were a skittish animal, she cupped his hands in hers. Magic pooled between his palms and settled on his skin like a soft blanket. “You have a gift in you, too, Juniper. Let no one convince you that beauty is for others. Not Ghilen’nain, not Andruil, no one.” She lifted his hands until the magic spilled over his head like water pulled up from a spring.

It slithered down his body and over his armor, leaving a warm tingle in its wake before splashing against the ice underfoot. Confident in the protection of her ice wall, he shook himself and patted his body down, trying to chase, trying to understand what had happened. “What did you do to me? A gift like this, I can’t-”

“I did nothing. The magic was always yours, you simply didn’t know how to feel it.”

“What do I do with it?”

“Whatever you want.”

Whatever  _ he _ wanted. What a foreign concept. What a magical thought. Magical. He laughed and Aquila laughed with him, though she couldn’t know why.

“I have orders to send, Juniper, and letters to write. I will see you again, when duty permits.”

And then she was gone, like a spirit with her purpose complete, Aquila disappeared into the trees. Her ice did not shift or melt for as long as he watched it, but when he returned the next day for his duty, it was gone without a trace. All that remained of her magic was the juniper tree. Months passed with Juniper’s back pressed against the tree, his tree. He dreamed of wanting, of tasting spun sugar, of riding in a carriage made by his father’s hands. He woke to the taste of sand on his tongue and felt every jostling step under his feet and there was an emptiness in his chest for something he couldn’t name.

But it was an emptiness born from a vacuum, born from a shapeless nothing. It wasn’t just that he desired things, it was that for the first time in his life he  _ could _ desire things. He wanted the cold feel of ice under his feet. Wanted the tingle of magic on his skin. He wanted and desired and wished every day while on guard.

Until the day he got it.

The tiniest patch of ice formed on his finger. Like a snowflake that had gotten out of hand in the clouds and grown until it fell from its own weight, but there were branches and leaves above his head. The ice had not come from the clouds, but from himself. It melted and he pressed the wetness into his cheek to prove it had been there, he had made something. He had  _ made _ something, like his mother made sweet buildings and his father made sturdy wagons.

Danger was banished from his mind when he next saw Aquila. “Teach me.”

Her face lit like the sunrise and her eyes crinkled with so much joy he could hardly see them. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”

For days and weeks at a time, General Aquila Meshurok would teach him. Writing and magic and sums and magic and history and magic. She drew him while he practiced and pulled apples from the juniper tree when they were hungry and even though the sun rose and set twenty times, they never sought sleep. Mages did not have to guard, she told him. Mages could serve in the estate and make choices or go to war, or even serve another of the Evanuris. He hardly knew their names, outside of Ghilen’nain. Even June he’d only heard of in sharp whispers telling him to never go by that name.

Sylaise the Healer he liked the sound of, but Aquila knew only how to heal the simplest of flesh wounds and couldn’t teach him anything to impress her. She’d taught him to read, but without books or scrolls he couldn’t teach himself and hers were, she said, only of war and killing things. He had a talent for enchanting, for tinkering, but they agreed June would think his name an insult, nevermind that was called only Juniper.

“Thank you, General,” he said before she left again. “I will speak with my overseer. Request a new position. One where I can… Where I can do more. Make things. Build things.”

“I’ll find you, whatever job you have.”

It was two years before he saw her again. He didn’t tell her of the lashing and confinement he’d received for his request. Perhaps he didn’t need to with the dim light in his eyes and the defeat that clung to him long after the punishment ended. It was then he learned what a heart was because he saw hers break as she looked at him. She nothing, only rested her fingers on the back of his hand. Aquila didn’t burn him with apologies; she knew he didn’t want them.

For a day and night they stood in silence, the woods echoing their stillness. As the sun rose, Aquila closed her eyes and bowed her head. “I had hoped to celebrate together. Andruil has traded me to June so I no longer have to kill and destroy.” For the first time, she takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. “But I had also feared this would happen.” She replaces her hand with a scroll case made of vellum-thin marbled capped with gold and silver embellishments. 

“This contains a letter,” she said though her voice was breaking. “Take it to Mythal’s servant, the one called Solas. Do not ask permission; do not hesitate; only run.” She breathed out a thread of purple magic and on the surface of the scroll case an arrow formed. “It will guide you when you are lost.” Webs of blue light shot from her palms and splattered over him like day-old custard before disappearing. “And this will hide you when you are hunted. Say no words or the protection is lost. I should have done this sooner.”

Tears are in her eyes when she steps back. A second Juniper walks out of her form, an illusion solid-enough to take the bow from his back and shove him out of his duty place.

“Go, Juniper. Run and deliver the message. For me because I know you cannot yet do it for yourself.”

He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand, but still he ran. Confusion tore through his mind and what might have been his heart, if he had believed he had one. He didn’t know what it all meant, only that it would hurt. Hurt more than the lashing. More than the underground confinement. For the first time in his life, he didn’t fear Andruil’s arrows. He ran through the trees until he found the edge of the Cradle and then he ran more. It was years before he realized he missed his parents. Decades before his unbranded reflection looked like himself.

A hundred years after meeting Aquila, when he sat alone in his workshop on the island of Amorgos, he realized that if he saw her again, he would love her. He hadn’t been enough of a person, hadn’t been alive enough to love when he’d known her and now that he had the capability he wished he never met her again.

Because even though she had been perfection when he was nothing, there was no hope she would be good enough for him now. He was a free man with wants and the abilities to achieve them. She was a fox that gave crumbs to a mouse, nothing more.


	4. Chapter 4

Skyhold felt painfully large with the Inquisition and Orlesians and other dignitaries gone. Clan Lavellan’s aravels still took pride of place in the courtyard, but her extended family wasn’t interested in living inside the stone walls themselves. Not that Kirtida blamed them. She’d never liked the cabin in Haven and only came around to her room in Skyhold once it was full of her books and research. She missed Josephine a little, Dorian a lot, but the truth was… She was bored. She loved her research, but the days felt empty without imminent danger.

“Good morning, Kir.”

She blasted Wind and Force magic at the speaker before she realized it was Arlo. He flew backwards off the stairs, then disappeared only to reappear next to her, his eyes red from magic use. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away from the edge. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Looks like all of that practice with Juniper is finally paying off. When he and Aquila get back they’re going to help me teleport forward instead of just back where I was.” He grinned at her with his dimples popping and his eyes nearly closed with joy. 

“They didn’t tell me that.” Kir closed her hands over the vallaslin on her palms.

He shrugged, his blond hair flopping to the side. “They thought you could use a break from knowing everything. It’s nice to just be a person sometimes.”

“But I’m not just a person. I’m the second of my clan. I have to teach people, set an example, learn things. I have to-”

“Take a break?” He laced his fingers and put his hands behind his head. “You did just save all of Thedas from Corypheus.  And we’re gonna do it again when the Elders get back. The Breach might have opened a bunch of rifts, but if the Veil wasn’t thinning in those areas, it probably wouldn’t have happened. My magic’s gotten a lot stronger since I was a kid, and not from any practice.”

Kir bit her lip and shoved her hands into the sash around her waist. “Do you really think it’ll be that bad?”

“They let me eavesdrop on their conversation about it. People just don’t know how to handle that much magic anymore. And Spirits don’t know how to handle the realness of the world. Maybe it won’t be as bad as when the Veil went up, but it won’t be good.” Arlos dropped his hands and touched the back of her shoulder. “It’ll be alright. We’ll stop it before it starts. And The Iron Bull’s coming back with recruits, too!”

She tried to smile. “And your clan, too, right? Ilena’s cross and loud, but she’s a great mage.”

“We’ll get all the Dalish. All the People. No more hiding in the woods and deserts and only seeing each other at Arlathvhen. We don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

The word ‘hiding’ hits Kir like a blow to the chest. It shouldn’t have. It should have been obvious that their nomadic lifestyle wasn’t about following herds and was actually about not being hunted by the humans. Should have known that their books were few and sacred because history was important, but it meant nothing if they were dead and books were heavy. Should have known that the persecution of the humans wasn’t just a passing thing. She’d yelled it in other people’s faces. How had she not known… Not realized…

“Oh, oh, are you okay?” Arlo leaned his face in too close and wiped at her wet cheeks with his sleeve. “Hey, we’re safe here. It’s fine. Do you want me to bring you down to your parents?”

She shook her head and swallowed the emotions in her throat. “No, no. I’m just being silly.”

“Your feelings are never silly. They shape our choices, make us who we are, bring us together, teach us lessons. My feelings made me stay here and that’s one of the best decisions I ever made.”

“Because you can finally learn magic?”

“Because I get to be with you. You’re funny and clever and you know so much about the histories, but not just the stories, you know what they mean to the People and how they’ve shaped our culture through the years. You’re the one that’s going to help us put the pieces back together until we’re one people again.”

“That’s not the point. We don’t have to be one people. We can have different ideas and still live together and-”

“See? This is why I need to be here. Come one. Let’s go to the kitchens. I made some sweet pastries that should be almost done. You can tell me all of your ideas about a new society for the People.”

“New society makes it sound like we’re going to throw everything out. The Evanuris were terrible, yes, but the  _ stories _ still shaped how we see the world…”


End file.
